River Run

by Toni Dwiggins

  “You mean accomplices,” Neely hissed.

  NEELY HAWTHORNE AND Justin Brice sat in yellow molded-plastic chairs near the door.

  When we'd all first crowded into the room, Reid had fixed his attention on Quillen, and then, after Quillen took his chair, Reid had given the two-person HGP team a cursory acknowledgement. And then ignored them.

  He eyed them, now.

  Neely turned to Justin. “You're up.”

  Justin stood, taking the canvas messenger bag that hung on the back of his chair. He was impeccably dressed, black chinos and white linen shirt. His arms and face had a desert-gold tan. His blond hair was neatly flipped at the front in that standing wave.

  Justin and I traded places, and as we passed we nodded and locked eyes. His pale-blue eyes were ice.

  I took his chair and turned to Neely. She looked haggard. Her face was pasty, her black curls matted. She wore her uniform of jeans and yellow tee-shirt with the purple HGP lettering, but the shirt had a coffee stain and the jeans were unstylishly baggy. She'd lost weight.

  I gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

  “We haven't formally met,” Justin said, at Reid's side now. “I'm Justin Brice, journalist with Hawthorne Group Productions. We're doing a documentary about threats to the Colorado River.” Justin opened his messenger bag, withdrew a fat three-ring binder, and set it on the tray. “This is my salinity binder. I compile my research old-school.”

  Reid said, “This has something to do with me?”

  “This establishes my credentials on the subject.”

  “A prop.”

  “If you like.” Justin withdrew a laptop from his bag and set it beside the binder. “This has something to do with you.”

  “Not old-school.”

  “Not when I'm storyboarding.” Justin opened the laptop, powered it up, tapped the keys, and then adjusted the angle so that Reid had a good line of sight to the screen. “I have a story to tell you.”

  Reid looked.

  From my seat, I got an angled view.

  The image on-screen was of a mammoth concrete plug in the river.

  “Hoover Dam,” Justin said.

  Reid shrugged. “I recognize it.”

  “I'm sure you do. The story starts there. Dam operators have to fine-tune when river salinity rises. They're not going to stop the flow. So they mix in stored water that's less saline, to sweeten up the outflow.”

  Neely, beside me, leaned forward. Her cousin had been suspected of sabotage against a dam. Quillen had assured her that Wes had been formally cleared. Now, she stared hard at the man who had set him up.

  Reid's attention stayed on the laptop.

  Justin tapped a key and the next image came up: the blue sprawl of Lake Mead and its parched shores, behind the lip of the dam. “The reservoir is dangerously low. That's a problem for those who rely on Colorado River water.”

  “Tell me something I don't know.”

  “You don't know how I've put it all together.” Justin brought up the next image: the sweep of Las Vegas with Lake Mead in the background.

  Reid waited. Heartbeat steady, according to the beats of the vital signs monitor.

  “Mead is the lifeline for Vegas—provides ninety percent of its water. Supply's getting iffy. Quality is at risk, with increased salinity.”

  “Good job. You've done your research.”

  “In depth.” Justin brought up the next image, a desert valley with a bubbling spring fringed by lush grass. “Vegas managers have considered a fallback source, drilling into the regional aquifer and piping in clean water.”

  “This is old news.”

  “No, this is where you come in. I've created a binder on you.”

  Reid tipped his head to glance down at Justin's messenger bag.

  “It's in Agent Quillen's possession.”

  Reid glanced at Quillen, then wetted his hospital-chapped lips.

  “I'll summarize,” Justin said. “You put together a consortium to build the pipeline. Unfortunately you ran into trouble, as had previous bidders. Local ranchers and ecologists and indigenous tribes objected to the water grab. Trouble, as in your consortium stood to lose a lot of money.”

  “You contact someone at Vegas city hall?”

  “I investigated. It's what I do.”

  “Then you'll have learned the proposal is sound. Nothing illegal about it.”

  “Everything's illegal about what followed.”

  “Simply, no.”

  “Your proposal stalled,” Justin continued. “You needed to up the ante. Scare the Vegas water managers.”

  “That's preposterous.”

  “Let's find out. First, you stage an attack on the brine-extraction facility for the Colorado River.” Justin tapped, and the blasted pipeline at the Paradox Valley plant showed on-screen. “A warning that it's not secure. With a dead 'terrorist' onscene.”

  “Terrorist?” Reid sighed. “That was an attempt by a misguided young man to get the plant shut down.”

  “Part two.” Justin brought up the next image. It was a photo taken by Pete's SAR team, up in the Shinumo, that dazzling white cavern. “You assumed nobody would find this place. You underestimated two geologists, one ranger, one FBI agent, and one whistleblower boatman, all acting in concert. The cavern was found. You remember.”

  “I remember,” Reid said, neutrally.

  “And of course you remember this place.” The cavern gave way to the outflow of Shinumo Creek, into the Colorado River.

  I stared hard at this one, at the bisected beach where Wes had landed us, where Quillen interrogated Reid, where Pete took us back onto the river.

  Justin nodded at the image on-screen. “Here's where it would have come together. You blast open that sequestered salt bed in the cavern. You contaminate one of the few perennial sources of clean water in the Canyon. You create a new point source of salinity for the Colorado River.”

  “Interesting theory,” Reid said. “You lick your lips and you taste brine.”

  “More than a theory. Your explosives were in place.”

  “Not mine. Go investigate Gary Phipps.”

  “I investigated your associates.” Justin tapped a key and three photos appeared: Frank Hembry, Sam Pendleton, Megan Schrader. “You didn't know how big a salinity spike you could cause, if that would be a tipping point. But you had that covered. Hembry worked at Glen Canyon Dam in database security, which gave him access to a wide range of data. Schrader worked at Hoover Dam in public relations, which meant she handled timely issues like water flow and salinity, which gave her access to data. And the prime data came from salinity gauging stations on the river. They show TDS, total dissolved salts. Hembry and Schrader would pass the data to Sam Pendleton, columnist at the Las Vegas Journal, who wrote about local issues, including the water supply from Lake Mead. Now he'd have a big story to break: elevated TDS, salinity spiking. He massages the data, if need be. Adds the warning about the brine plant, more salinity insecurity. Spin. The story goes viral.”

  “That's nothing to do with me.”

  “That's everything to do with you. Your name comes first on the proposal. That salt cavern gave us the key to the story. From there, it was textbook investigative journalism to connect to your associates' jobs, and that led to the water issues bedeviling Las Vegas. From there, it was a hop skip and jump to examining public records and finding your proposal.”

  “My proposal addressed a water supply problem.”

  “Your proposal was going to fail. So you needed to get Las Vegas talking. Where's the next clean drink of water coming from? The power of fear.”

  “Simply, no.”

  “And that rafting trip was what? One last check? A celebration? Each of you carrying a rock sample, symbolizing the targets. What the hell was that—party favors?”

  “It was a fishing trip with friends.” Reid's face tightened. “Here's the power of fear. I lose my friends and I don't remember. It's called phobogenic amnesia. I'm sure Walter explained.”
Reid twisted and looked at Walter.

  Walter remained impassive.

  Reid pivoted to Quillen. “I know he explained it to you. A snake. I'm phobic.”

  Quillen leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. “But you don't remember.”

  “I don't remember the aftermath. I do remember the snake.”

  “Now? How's that?”

  “The power of fear, Agent Quillen. You and I experienced it on that raft overrun with scorpions. I'm sure Cassie and Walter can recall that fear. I sure can. Even now, it's a shock. And that's what I remembered when I woke up yesterday, here again in a hospital bed. Those scorpions. And reliving that shock jolted my memory of the thing that caused the panic on my fishing trip. I've been getting jumpy feelings, like I want to get away. I've been getting flashes—islands of memory. I've seen what I tried to escape, on that beach. A snake. Just a snake, right? Well, I've spent most of my life trying to overcome that phobia. I failed. And the worst of it is, I fear the next time. You ever wake up in the night and feel something trying to claw its way out of you? That's the power of fear.”

  “So you saw a snake. After you returned from your final checklist at the cavern.”

  Reid expelled a breath. “There was no checklist at the cavern. There was just a fishing trip gone wrong.”

  Quillen sat back and folded his arms.

  Reid turned to Justin. “And now I fear I've had enough.” Reid took the controller that hung on the bed rail and pressed a button, raising the backrest higher, bringing him closer to the tray. He reached out and slid the laptop toward Justin. “Here you go.”

  Justin stopped the slide. “Here's what wakes me up in the night.” He tapped a key.

  The image that filled the screen was of a rock-strewn canyon floor, the pebbles and cobbles and boulders that littered the ground having avalanched down from the ridge above.

  “That's where my friend died.”

  “That's tragic,” Reid said. “And nothing to do with me.”

  With a cry, Neely came out of her chair.

  I caught her just before she reached Reid's bed. I got her around the waist, hugging her, holding her, wanting to unleash her. I felt her trembling, down to the bone.

  Justin leaned over Reid. He said, coolly, “Up to me, you'll have a rockslide in your future.”

  “Fuck this.” Reid shoved aside the tray so hard the laptop and binder flew off and hit the floor.

  Quillen left his chair to pick them up.

  “Settle down Reid,” Walter said. “You've got one more visitor.”

  I OPENED THE DOOR TO the hallway, peeked out, nodded, and then stood aside.

  Charlotte Lassen came through the doorway.

  She halted just inside. She stared at the bed, at her brother.

  Reid pushed himself up straighter, as if to get a better look at her. “You too?”

  Charlotte stalked over to the bed.

  I closed the door and stood next to Justin and Neely, the three of us braced against the wall. Quillen had returned to his chair, the binder and laptop stacked on his lap. Walter remained seated.

  We gave the room to the Lassen siblings.

  Charlotte carried a large leather brass-studded purse. She opened it and withdrew a small box. She set the box on the tray.

  Reid didn't look. He held his gaze on Charlotte. Stone-faced.

  The tray was still shoved aside, giving me a clear view of the box. It was designed like a treasure chest, with metallic trim.

  Charlotte opened the box and removed the rough chunk of gypsum-veined gray shale and set it on the tray. The awl-shaped inclusion in the matrix was immediately identifiable—in part because it was of a kind with the fossil shark tooth in the Mancos rock carried by Frank Hembry. I recalled finding the source of the Hembry rock, the gouge in the wall of the cave above the brine plant. I recalled finding other gouges, and wondering if Reid had taken other fossils.

  As it turned out, he had.

  Charlotte spoke, voice rough as the Mancos shale. “I found that in his sock drawer.”

  Reid didn't look.

  Charlotte withdrew the second item from the box, a folded sheet of cream-colored parchment stationery. She unfolded it and let it skate down beside the fossil.

  I couldn't read the bold handwriting from where I stood, but Quillen had seen it, earlier. Quillen had told us what it said: Much Thanks, From Uncle Reid.

  “You recruited my son,” Charlotte said.

  Reid's eyes flicked toward Quillen, a micromovement. Could have meant a number of things, but I read concern into that look. I figured Reid understood that the cool shark tooth he'd used to buy Jeff Lassen's allegiance—to talk him into setting off a pipe bomb, to tell him to strike at the brine plant that caused earthquakes and undermined property values—was now a piece of damning show-and-tell.

  Reid's gaze came back to his sister. Steadfast again. But a muscle twitched in one eyelid.

  Charlotte said, “Let me tell you about kids, since you have none. They mess up. Jeff messed up, and he's dead. Becca messed up, and she almost died.” Charlotte moved up against the bed rail and leaned over Reid. “You messed up too, brother.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  EIGHT DAYS AFTER WE'd rafted away from the beach at the outflow of Shinumo Creek, we returned.

  The sun was high and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. It was a spectacular day in the spectacular Grand Canyon. The surrounding cliffs were sun-streaked. The river sparkled. The quartz sand glinted. Even wearing hat and shades, I had to squint against the radiance.

  An orange raft passed and I watched it plow into Shinumo Rapid, and I took note of the neatly secured bow line and the rafters wearing their vests, and I heard their gleeful shouts, and I wished them a safe trip. The raft disappeared around the bend.

  That's the way we'd gone, on our disastrous trip downriver.

  I'd done it several times since, in my dreams.

  Here we all were again, in reality.

  A SAR chopper had deposited us on the beach and then flown upriver in response to a call for assistance—a hiker with a broken ankle.

  No hikers on the cliffs above us, now.

  No more rafts coming our way.

  No rafts parked here.

  Just us.

  I wetted my lips.

  Anticipation.

  Walter and Quillen looked resolute.

  Reid looked wary. Rightly so. He'd complained about this return. He had no physical excuse—he appeared fit enough, his right hand still casted but the exposed flesh less swollen, less bruised. Fit enough to have been discharged from the hospital, day before yesterday. Fit enough to grimly acquiesce to Quillen's request.

  I need you to accompany us to the river.

  Walter and I were included because we were the other survivors.

  Or so Quillen had pitched it to Reid.

  Quillen was the first to stir. He said, “A site was found.” He struck out across the rocky beach.

  Walter moved behind Reid, in effect sandwiching Reid between himself and Quillen. Reid had no tenable option but to get going.

  I followed.

  We crossed the sand to the brushy bank at the outflow of the creek. I looked up toward the gorge that cut an opening in the cliffs. There, the dark ramparts of ancient metamorphic rock were in deep shadow. Up in that gorge, around a bend, was the waterfall that fed this outflow. We'd hiked and waded up that way, last time we were here, in a fruitless search for Megan Schrader. There was nobody to search for, now.

  The waterfall clamored and echoed, unseen.

  We waded into the outflow. The water was calf-high and bone-cold. A shock. We headed upcreek. There were narrow banks and then sloping rock ledges where we could have edged along, but the going was more direct through this tail end of the creek. We picked our way through the boulder-strewn water. And then the ramparts of the gorge closed in and shadows fell across us, chilling us. Hiding us.

  We took off hats and shades, to better see in t
he sudden gloom.

  It was a short trek.

  We rounded a bend and the waterfall thundered into view, Shinumo Creek flowing over resistant rock and fracturing into ribbons and foam, pooling at the bottom, a grotto, a swimming hole. A destination, the focus of a hike from the beach for anyone who came this way. No reason to look for anything else.

  We stopped short.

  Quillen said, “We've missed it.” He consulted a photo on his cell phone, sent by yesterday's search team. He looked from the screen to the gorge wall. He frowned. “We missed it,” he repeated.

  We backtracked, slower this time. Quillen and Walter and I scanned the rock walls. Reid didn't ask what we were looking for. I figured he was hedging his bets. Whether or not to show surprise, when we got there.

  I was beginning to think we'd backtrack all the way to the beach, when Quillen abruptly halted.

  He checked the photo on his phone. Then he looked at the wall of the gorge. He said, “Here?”

  I didn't see it. And then I shifted position, and the shadow on the wall shifted, and I saw. There was a vertical crack.

  Quillen stepped forward and stuck his hand into the crack. His wrist bent. He was clutching something, and when I shifted yet again I saw that he'd gripped the edge of the crack, like you'd grip the edge of a door you were going to push open. This rock door was just slightly ajar. And of course it could not be pushed open.

  It could only be flanked.

  Quillen went first, pressing himself into the skinny space where the crack ran, where the door stood in the petrified act of opening. Of closing.

  “Come along,” he called.

  The rest of us came along. Reid, then Walter, then me.

  By the time I'd squeezed my way through the doorway—remembering squeezing around a boulder high in the Shinumo, into a tunnel that led to a chasm—the others were already making sounds of discovery.

  I entered the alcove and joined them.

  Reid said, “What's this?”

  Understandably, it wasn't immediately clear. Firstly, it was a campsite. The alcove was a generous patch of sandy ground below a wide ledge of dark schist. There was room enough for the four of us to crowd in, room enough for the small tent.